


The Warrior's Heart

by PlagueClover



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Worship, Challenge Response, Desert Island Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Gay Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Isolation, Language Barrier, M/M, Pirates, Sad, Shipwrecks, Size Difference, Stranded, Vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-12-01 22:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20916389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlagueClover/pseuds/PlagueClover
Summary: Hawthorne loses everything in one fell swoop: his ship, his crew, nearly his life. He washes ashore on a lonely island in the middle of the ocean and there he meets a Polynesian warrior...





	The Warrior's Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetmamajama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetmamajama/gifts).

> Warning: Keep your standards nicely lowered, thank you! I know exactly nothing about body worship and I don't do vanilla, so this was a big ol' challenge for me.

A crack resounded through the ship.

Wood splintered beneath Hawthorne’s wrapped feet. He darted backwards with a shout, drowned out by cannon fire. Just as the deck split into a gaping chasm. 

He didn’t even see it break. He was too busy lunging for the rail as chainshot ripped through the sails and rained splinters and chips of metal down on the screaming pirates below. The mast crashed down on the deck. It crushed the captain and carved the ship in half. A billowing blanket of blazing linen swept down to smother a dozen more. 

All was lost. 

The battle, the only family he’d ever known... and if he hung around there a moment longer, his life as well. 

Hawthorne glanced back at the few survivors. Men were flinging themselves overboard. Not a swimmer among the sorry sods. They should’ve let him teach them when they had the chance. They’d drown if they were lucky. The unlucky ones would find something to float on and get scooped up by the blasted victors. 

A brave and foolish few weren’t done fighting. They wanted to die on their own terms, did they? Stubborn and stupid terms. They threw their lines across the gap and like desperate rats, they scurried their way onto the Naval man-o-war.

He didn’t wait to watch the fools meet their fates. As he leapt from the rail, he heard them just as well: the volley of musket fire and the chorus of screams. He hit the icy water, and the roiling black waves swallowed him up. 

\--

Every muscle in his slender, battered body was sore. Hawthorne had barely been able to summon the strength to crawl through the gentle surf. Once he collapsed on that cool, moonlit sand, he was there to stay. For hours. Not quite unconscious. Just trying to breathe. Just staring up at the glimpses of stars through the wispy clouds.

He didn’t want to think about all his brothers and the fates that claimed their wicked, wonderful souls. They were gone now. 

By the time he managed to sit up, the man-o-war was but a dot on the cloudy horizon and all that remained of his home were a few bits of debris on the water, ever creeping towards the shore, and the faint taste of gunpowder that flavoured the tropical breeze. 

Movement prickled at his senses. Probably a hungry jaguar with his sodden luck. His gaze swept across the stretch of sand and surf, but there wasn’t a single blade to be found. His beautiful cutlass was probably sitting proud on a nice colourful coral bed somewhere out there in the bay. A few planks drifted a little too far out to grab. 

With a resigned sigh, he pushed to his feet and pulled his damp, blond curls out of his face. His brown eyes locked with a pair of black ones, glinting from the treeline. His breath caught in his throat. Just a flash of rippling, broad muscle and a massive, towering frame before it stepped out under the moonlight, and he caught sight of the long, heavy spear. 

A warrior? Out here, on an island in the middle of the ocean? Hawthorne took an awkward step away. “Oh bloody hell,” he rasped to himself. But even as the threat of that spear loomed, the silence between them grew and his weary eyes drifted back to those muscles. 

The warrior’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer. 

“I’m unarmed!” Hawthorne spread his arms. He let out something between a laugh and a sob as they dropped helplessly to his sides again. “There’s no victory for you here. Those French bastards took it.” He tossed a look out at the debris riding the waves and gulped back a swell of emotion. “Blast... Now look what you’ve made me do: I’ve damn well teared up, haven’t I? What a fearsome pirate I turned out to be.” 

The warrior frowned. His black eyes peered steadily at Hawthorne, unblinking, quiet. 

His lament felt uncomfortable. He wore his sadness like an ill-fitted doublet, far too heavy and constricting for his wayward soul. He didn’t like it. He wanted to pull it off and abandon it there in the water with everything else that was his life up until this forsaken night. Especially under that unwavering gaze.

“Fuck it,” he grunted. He tore off up the beach, towards the trees. “They’re gone. What good will blubbering like a babe do for them now? I need shelter and food, but first I need...” He trailed off and slowed as he looked back to that big, hulking shape trailing along after him. “... a weapon. Why are you following me?”

There was no answer. Just that quiet, glinting stare. 

Under the moonlight, the warrior’s muscles shimmered when he moved. Every rippling inch beaded with sweat and reflected the stars just briefly until the shade of the trees rendered him nothing but a hulking shadow. 

“You’re not a cannibal, are you?” Hawthorne breathed a long-suffering sigh as he reluctantly tore his eyes away. It was hard not to stare. Even in the darkness when naught could be seen. He’d never met a man so big. Muscles so sculpted, and in his life at sea, he had certainly seen his fair share of both. 

He resigned himself to climbing his way through the undergrowth. He took it slow. He was nimble and quick enough, but his wrapped feet were meant for climbing rigging. Out here in the jungle, that cloth wrapped around them would be pitiful protection against the fangs and thorns that lurked in the dark. 

Something screeched. He tensed and stopped as his eyes darted skyward. 

A hand touched his shoulder. He jumped and whirled around, but that hulking shadow was right there. Close. The comforting, familiar scent of sweat flavoured the air around him, and then in a deep, satiny voice, the warrior said, “_Manuki _.”

It was just one word, but somehow the sound of it - the deep, flowing timbre of that voice soothed Hawthorne. He let out a low breath and nodded. “Yes, right... Whatever that means.” 

For a moment he just hovered there, hyper aware of the noises around them. Being so close to that warrior, so wrapped up in that emanating body heat, he almost felt safe. 

“Devil take me,” Hawthorne cursed as he abruptly pulled away. “I must have swallowed too much sea water. You’re probably not even real. What kinda warrior wanders around at night alone? Where’s your tribe, muscle man? Your people?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. Not like he expected to get one. Things brushed across his battered arms and face as he kept going. It briefly occurred to him that if he were smart, he would have waited on that beach until dawn, but the idea of sitting there, just waiting for the bodies to wash up... 

No.

He took a few more determined steps, only to stumble over something in the dark. He cursed under his breath. “I need fire,” he hissed, as if the jungle would obey. 

The sound of stones being struck stole his attention. He looked back to see little bursts of sparks and after another couple strikes, a tiny little flame bloomed to life in the warrior’s hands. Dark eyes, reflecting the fire, flitted to Hawthorne for just a moment before the warrior turned and let the flames catch the upturned base of his spear, which was wrapped in a black cloth. 

“You understand me,” Hawthorne said, but uncertainty edged his voice. 

He climbed to his sore feet and cast a glance around at the growing shadows. At first every inch of that jungle was indistinguishable from the next. Everything just looked like shapes covered in moss. But as the fire grew, he could make out the trees, the vines, the rocks, and the wall...

His brows furrowed. A _ wall _?

Sure enough, there, in the overgrown thicket, was a stone wall. Not a cliff. Not just some rocky outcrop, an actual wall that towered high, halfway up the surrounding trees. The stones were uniform and streaked with what might’ve been engraved symbols once upon a time, but were so weather-beaten, chipped, and covered in ivy, any meaning would be impossible to decipher.

Hawthorne took a step towards it.

“No.” That hand gripped his shoulder. 

He glanced back into those dark, fiery eyes. No warning in them. No threat. Just a quiet, gentle command. Apparently he didn’t know a thing about pirates and commands.

“So you do speak English,” Hawthorne murmured. His gaze drifted down over that muscular frame to watch the reflection of the fire dancing in the sheen of sweat. “Is this a tomb or something?”

“Rest,” the warrior answered in a grunt. 

Another command. Hawthorne huffed a weary laugh. He offered a wide shrug and tossed a look around at the mossy stones. “Here? You’re lucky I’m tired, or I’d make you eat that word.” 

“Rest,” the warrior grunted again. This time he emphasized it by untying his loincloth. 

“Whoa!” Hawthorne darted in and grabbed the loincloth to stop him. “What the devil are you doing?! Keep that on!” 

“Rest.”

“I know out here, your sense of propriety is limited, my primitive friend,” Hawthorne hissed, “but I can see more than enough of you already. I don’t need to see...” Oh, but he could feel it. The weight of it as he desperately held that loincloth up. The fire dancing in those eyes certainly wasn’t helping, as they gazed curiously at him with the faintest hint of amusement. 

The warrior gently tried to tug the cloth from Hawthorne’s grip, but he damn well would not let go. As if it wasn’t bad enough, with that scent of sweat, with the feeling of charged heat between them, and the oppressive humidity bearing down. He didn’t trust himself. The warrior muttered something and tried to tug a little harder, but Hawthorne was determined. 

They wrestled over it for just seconds, tugging back and forth, glaring into each others eyes. Then the warrior abruptly let go when Hawthorne was mid-tug. It launched him backwards with a shriek. A hand shot out to catch him by the arm before he could fall, but there, in his clenched fist, hung a long strip of cloth. And there it dangled, that thick piece of flesh, between the dark, muscles legs. 

Hawthorne quickly averted his eyes. He could already feel the sinful heat welling up inside. 

All these years he had worked alongside dozens of sweaty, muscled sailors, from the merchant fleets to the pirate ships, and he resisted every charming fucker among them. Even as he heard his brethren stealing away moments in the dead of night, panting away in the shadows of bonfires... 

But he’d never before been this up close and personal with anyone quite so... pleasing to the eye.

He sucked in a shuddery breath and then dropped the cloth and shuffled away. Perhaps a bit of distance and time would remedy the needy warmth that blossomed in his belly. When he could feel the heat from the fire moving around behind him, he chanced a glance back to find the warrior laying the cloth across a fallen, mossy log. 

The warrior gestured to it and gently urged, “rest.” 

Hawthorne didn’t argue. He was tired of losing battles tonight.

\--

A sharp sting ripped Hawthorne from a dreamless sleep. He jerked up and found a big ant sitting on his arm that he promptly flicked off. He couldn’t see a bump from a bite, but his arm still stung so her rubbed it as he got up off the log. 

Felt like he had bugs crawling all over him. Probably did. Who knew what sorts of creepy crawlies infested that stagnant, rotted paradise? 

The fire had died, but faint morning light was beginning to filter through the dense canopy, casting the mossy jungle around him in washed-out greys. At first he thought he was alone. Maybe that warrior was a hallucination after all, but there was still that loin cloth on that log, and a moment later, he heard a soft snoring sound. 

His brown eyes landed on a darkened shape slumped against a tree. He stared long enough to see the steady rise and fall of the shoulders. 

Fast asleep. Good. 

It felt as golden an opportunity as he was going to get. He wanted to escape the temptation of that glistening, muscled flesh, but it was due time for his luck to turn around. Somewhere behind that wall, there was a prize ripe for the picking, he just knew it. Perhaps something he could use to buy himself a ship when he made it back to civilization. Gather his own crew - men who knew how to retreat when a battle was lost. 

And he’d teach the wretched lot of them to bloody well swim! 

He turned to look at the stone wall. He even tried on a greedy smile, but the echoes of his fallen comrades stole it from his lips. He didn’t want to be sad. So he forced his friends from his mind and thought about the bastards he’d gladly kill to avenge them. 

It was a short trek through the trees, but far enough that the sounds had changed. The distant songs of birds and beasts from a few paces back now were drowned out by the noisy rush of water. So close, he slowed down for fear he may trip and stumble over a waterfall at any moment. 

Instead, he found the way in. 

A huge, crumbling archway. It glittered gold in the faint morning light, and beyond it lay a long corridor, lined with fountains of flowing springwater. The walls of which were broken in some places. A good couple inches of water covered the floor, feeding nutrients to the creeping vines and colourful mushrooms sprouting from the moss-covered floor. 

Quite pretty, as far as shadowy ruins go. 

Hawthorne strode carefully through. Tadpoles and little fish darted away from every step. Spiders skated across the water’s surface, and glimpses of rodent tails disappeared into cracks in the walls. Everywhere he looked, there was life. 

It was good to see something flourish when he was feeling so defeated. 

If it wasn’t so wet and humid in there, such that it took effort to breathe, he might’ve set up camp. Commune with the fishies, maybe lick a few of those mushrooms and see if he couldn’t conjure himself a spiritual experience as he whiled away the time waiting for a ship to pass.

He came to another archway. This one small and narrow, but on the other side, morning sunlight flooded a small room through holes in the ceiling. In the middle sat a pedestal with a display of colourful seashells, carvings and most importantly: gold. 

A good dozen glinting, golden idols. 

Hawthorne’s stomach quivered. Could practically feel his heart skip a beat. He shuffled into the room, out of the water and onto clean, cracked tile. The air was clearer in there. Good thing, because boy he was breathing heavy just thinking of what those idols might’ve been worth. 

He gently plucked one up into his hands. It was heavy. Solid. He wondered if it was gold all the way through. Perhaps he could melt one of them down just to be sure. 

His gaze flitted about the shells and carvings, hungry for more potential, for more promise of a luxurious future. Hell, he didn’t need to buy a ship or train a crew, he could buy himself a bleedin’ palace. 

Then he looked at the walls. They were lined with beds of grass covered in freshly tanned animal hides. There were old, faded symbols, crumbling and cracked, but freshly painted over with new, detailed scenes.

The first was a group of people, painted with black. The second was a ship. Much like his own, but bigger, with three masts and little white shapes on the deck. The third was a battle between the white and the black, and the last image was just a lone figure standing sullen in a sea of bodies splashed with red. 

It didn’t take him long for the meaning of it to sink it. For him to recognize that lone figure standing amongst the bodies with a spear in hand.

Hawthorne’s shoulders sagged. His eyes dropped to the idol in his hands and for the first time, he actually looked at it. Really looked at it.

It was a carving of a young girl in a grass skirt. She had a smile on her face and her hips curved out to one side like she was dancing. He could see the marks from the tools still crisp and fresh. He looked to another one. A hunter proudly displaying a fish. Another was an old woman with her arms wrapped around a dog.

They were all memories. That blasted sweet bastard’s happy memories. 

Hawthorne let out a laugh. It cracked with emotion and swelled into a sob in his throat. He clapped a hand over his mouth as he stared down at the figures and fought back the tears that stung in the corners of his eyes. 

A quiet splash came behind him. 

He spared a quick glance back just to see the warrior standing there in the archway, all big and frustratingly calm and silent. He didn’t look angry that Hawthorne was manhandling his memories. He just watched. 

“Fuck,” Hawthorne ducked his head away and wiped at his eyes. “They’re dead, aren’t they...” 

He tried to laugh again, but that made his weeping worse. It was so stupid. He’d seen so many people die, he should’ve been used to it, but he just couldn’t stop those blasted tears. 

His knees grew weak. He wanted to sink down to the floor - just standing upright suddenly felt like such a pointless chore - but that massive body appeared beside him. An arm wove around his back and with a wretched sob, he sunk in against that solid chest. 

He pressed his forehead to the warrior’s shoulder and allowed that body heat to envelope him. 

The air was hot enough, but he liked the feeling of those muscles wrapped around his weakened shoulders. The steady drumming of that heartbeat against his forehead, the rise and fall of the warrior’s soothing breath. Hawthorne found himself breathing along with him. Long. Deep. 

And before he knew it, the urge to cry had passed. 

He looked up into those quiet, dark eyes. Large, calloused fingers gently brushed the sweat-stiffened curls out of his face.

Hawthorne’s face cracked into a sad grin. He let out a tired laugh and buried his face back in the warrior’s chest. “Oh boy.” He laughed again and pulled away with a chiding, pointed finger. “You, sir, are treating me like a lady.”

The warrior followed. 

“I assure you,” Hawthorne’s voice grew breathier as the intent in those gentle eyes burned stronger with every step they took, “I am all man. I’d...” He swallowed as his gaze darted down to that loin cloth. “I’d offer to show you, but I fear you might take me up on-” 

His heel hit something. Hawthorne yelped and flailed his arms. He was just about to fall back when that thick arm caught him around his waist. He stared up, wide-eyed into that dark, watchful gaze. 

“Oh,” Hawthorne let out a frustrated growl, “to Hell with you and your beautiful fucking eyes.” Then he grabbed the warrior by his head, and captured his lips in a breathless kiss. 

The warrior grunted in surprise, but didn’t try to pull away. His hands gripped Hawthorne’s sides. The kiss lasted only a moment before they broke away to pant into the air between them and lock eyes. It didn’t feel real. Hawthorne tried to blame the sea water for this sin, but as a tingle rippled across his flesh and every inch those hands touched burned with need, he was well past resisting that particular temptation. 

He coiled his arms over those massive shoulders. The warrior murmured to him, words he didn’t care to make sense of, he just leaned into that deep voice, feeling the purr of it against his lips, until those lips pressed together. This time, slow. Indulgent. A hot tongue delved deep into his mouth, tasting vaguely of plantains and lime. 

His back hit the hide-covered bed of grass. Their kiss broke to the tune of his gasp just long enough for the warrior to climb up alongside him and reignite it. As that sweet tongue swirled with his, diligent fingers made quick work of the buttons on his slops. Soon Hawthorne’s threadbare shirt was falling off his shoulders and the warrior slowly pulled his breeches down his pale battered legs.

The warrior pressed his lips to Hawthorne’s thigh. It tickled. Made his breath hitch just a little. And as those lips traveled down, the tingle lingered in their wake. The warrior’s tongue tickled his knee as his breeches slipped the rest of the way off, and then those calloused fingers began to gingerly unwind the wraps from his feet. 

“Oh,” Hawthorne let out a shivery exhale. “Please... Say something. I feel dreadfully exposed.”

As that wandering tongue ran slowly up the arch of his foot, those dark eyes swept up his naked body, over his legs, his hips, his belly, lingering there for just a moment before they completed their indulgent journey to his eyes. 

“_ Ete aulelei, _” the warrior murmured. 

Hawthorne didn’t know what that meant, but damn he liked it. Liked the feel of that breath on his foot. Liked those soft lips as they pressed fleeting, butterfly kisses up to his ankle. It made him squirm. It made his breath shallow, and when the warrior moved up again, Hawthorne curled his legs over those glistening shoulders. 

“Keep talking,” He panted. 

“_ Ete _-”

“English,” Hawthorne breathlessly commanded.

The warrior ran his tongue up the inner thigh. A shiver rode Hawthorne’s breath. The small of his back twinged almost painfully with anticipation the further up it went. He gripped the thick black hair just as that wayward, wicked tongue reached the tip of his cock.

“Oh god,” Hawthorne gasped. “Your name! At least tell me that much!”

Instead, those deep, dark eyes closed, and the warrior sucked his swelling lust into his mouth. 

Heat surged through him. His back arched with the unbearable twinge and his fingers curled tight against the warrior’s scalp. He felt that first, coaxing suck all the way through his limbs to his fingertips and every breath he took trembled with approval. 

That hot tongue swelled over his balls. The warrior abandoned his bright red erection to suck in the tightening skin of his sack. It was slow and gentle, but the moan that escaped Hawthorne’s lips was not. He twisted in that bed. The harder the warrior sucked, the more Hawthorne squirmed against the hide. 

Then the tongue lapped at the flesh below. 

His body quaked. He’d never felt anything like it. It was like lightning surging through his veins in pulsing flashes of hot and cold. And that tongue kept going lower and lower. It lashed at his sensitive muscle. His legs twitched with a sharp twinge and he let out a squeak. And when it delved in, the ripple of hot bliss made his body melt against that cursed tongue. 

The warrior’s eyes opened as he came back up, to watch Hawthorne writhe. His calloused fingers ran up Hawthorne’s shaft and captured it in the palm of his hand. That steady, heated gaze locked with his as those soft lips pressed tenderly to the side of his cock. He murmured something against it, too quiet to make out, but the vibrations made Hawthorne purr. 

He gave it one last slow, indulgent suck, then he started moving up. He licked and sucked at the flesh around Hawthorne’s belly. His fingers travelled in the wet, cooling wake like he was trying to map every inch in excruciating detail. His teeth gently grazed a hardened nub and the chill that it sent racing down Hawthorne’s spine was nothing short of addictive. 

He pulled away. 

Hawthorne panted in protest. “Wait...” Every word was a struggle not to moan. “What are you doing? I’m not done.”

“No,” the warrior gently said, like he meant it to be calming. He got up and paced out of the room. 

Hawthorne swallowed awkwardly. He stared at the ceiling for a moment. What in blazes was he supposed to do now, supine and exposed to the heavens. 

He was just about to sit up when the warrior reappeared with his cock out and the thick leaf of a plant in his hand, cracked open. He slathered the clear insides over his erection until it dripped, then he climbed back onto the bed of grass and hide. He slipped his fingers into Hawthorne’s curls and pressed a tender, sucking kiss to his neck with a whispered promise. 

“This is happening,” Hawthorne whispered back as their lips brushed together, “isn’t it?”

The warrior eased in between his legs. 

“You won’t tell anyone about this, I trust...” It was meant to be a joke, but it did nothing to stop Hawthorne from trembling. 

He felt something press in. He sucked in a sharp breath, expecting pain, but it was smaller than he thought it would be. It took him a long moment through the slow, lingering kisses to his jaw and throat, to realize it was just fingers sliding deep inside.

They curled and stretched at him. It tickled at parts of him he’d never felt before. Made his muscles clench in encouraging pulses. He licked his lips and let his head fall back as his body slowly began to relax. As soon as his hips began to rock into it, the fingers slipped out and left him feeling woefully empty for just a second before he felt the real thing.

Slick and cool, it slid in. His legs curled at the pressure of it. A deep moan rolled from his throat. As the warrior whispered sweet-sounding words in his ear, he wrapped his arms around those broad shoulders and claimed those sinful lips to suck at that tart flavour while it filled him more and more. 

“Yes,” Hawthorne breathed.

The warrior ran his heated tongue up Hawthorne’s chin, to suck his bottom lip into his mouth. He began to rock. Slow and deep. 

At first, every move was met with a vaguely painful, unpracticed pang, but every time he grunted his discomfort, those warrior hips slowed further. That tongue stroked his and long, calloused fingers wrapped around his cooling erection to stoke that swelling heat. And soon, that pain washed away in slow, lingering waves of bliss. 

His breath came shallower. His thoughts melted away, and the erotic sounds spilling from his lips ceased to form words. He curled his fingers into the warrior’s hair. He held him tight as those soft lips played over his cheekbone. As their hips rocked faster, the fingers dancing over his cock did the same. 

He wrapped his legs high around the warrior’s waist. It went deeper and deeper with every thrust, faster and faster until he could feel each impact all the way up his spine. 

Hawthorne let out a loud moan as his body shuddered. His fingers raked across the back of the warrior’s glistening shoulders and his toes curled. He could feel it, that hard ball of heat teetering on the edge, begging for release. He clenched his legs so hard they cramped. 

The warrior growled. He thrust in all the way to the hilt. His burning eyes washed down over Hawthorne’s face one last time before rolling back into his head. His growl cracked into a howl. That broad, muscled body throbbed hard against him and a rush of wet heat erupted deep inside. 

For a moment, they were still. Was it over?

The warrior twitched and grunted a couple times, but Hawthorne wasn’t done. He needed to move. He needed that friction, that thrusting. When the warrior pulled out, he was about to protest, but instead of pulling away, those soft lips pressed briefly to his, then dipped down. 

All the way down. 

A hand gripped the back of his thigh. Those lips wrapped around his cock and with a powerful suck, Hawthorne’s whole body flared with approval. He gasped in the humid grass-scented air. He grabbed fistfuls of that thick hair and thrust into that tight mouth until that hard ball of swelling heat buried deep between his legs overcame him. 

His back arched. He let out a cry. The heat burst from him as his muscles seized. He quaked with every hot spurt and the warrior drank his sin down with abandon. 

Then he dropped. Slacken and panting in the hide on the grass. He stared up at the crumbling ceiling, at the clear blue sky through the holes. He was afraid to look down. To meet those dark eyes. But as that broad, muscled body gently laid alongside him, and he felt those soft lips brushing over his shoulder, he chanced a sheepish glance. 

But that face did not look like the devil leading him to temptation. It looked loving and calm. Even as they gazed into each other’s eyes. 

Guilt furrowed at Hawthorne’s brow. “I liked it... A lot, but... This was wrong,” he whispered. 

“No,” the warrior whispered back. His big, calloused hands ran gently up Hawthorne’s belly. Then he pulled their bodies close together, pressed his lips tenderly to the side of Hawthorne’s jaw, and let out a long, relaxing breath. 

As Hawthorne felt the steady heartbeat against his side, and let the rhythm of that breath guide his own, soon the guilty feeling passed. 

The End...


End file.
